


Still Half Human

by murrmursonbottle



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Awkward Romance, But Still Some PJ Characters, F/F, F/M, M/M, Original Character-centric, Percy and Crew don't Exist, Sexuality Confusion, Slow Build, Teen Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murrmursonbottle/pseuds/murrmursonbottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ignore my completely weird username.<br/>*Note that most characters are original, and the seven demigods of the great prophecy plus Nico, Reyna, and Luke do not exist!*<br/>Stephen never had a great life. He despised his mother, did awful in school, and never had a father to cheer him up. Turns out, his father had been watching him for years. Now at 13 years old, Stephen gets to finally meet his dad - all ten feet of him - and right after meeting him, he gets sent away on some long journey with his friends to save the world from terrorists. But along the way, drama and tension between friends is at an all time high, and Stephen starts to question his sexuality. Take a ride through this (hopefully) exciting, fun, and totally awkward and unexperienced fanfic written by a person with the most unusual username ever!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Half Human

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note--  
> I have no idea wtf I’m doing. This is my first fanfiction/spinoff, whatever you feel like calling it. I hope you readers think this is good, but expect errors. I’ll try to fix any mistakes found. Suggestions and corrections are also excepted and - trust me - acknowledged. Thanks, and enjoy! (Hopefully) With that I give you…  
> Still Half Human

I glared at my mother as I picked my backpack up from our light gray carpet.  
“Who - or should I say what - the hell are you?” I yelled, words laced with venom. “I don’t care if I came out of you, you’re not goddamn Julius Caesar!”  
“When is it that your mind gave birth to the false thought that your opinions matter?”  
“Since the moment I learned how to speak?! I’m a human, not a slave!”  
“I don’t care what the hell you think you are. You’re my child, unfortunately for me, and you’ll do what I say!”  
“Just because Dad left you when I was born doesn’t mean you have to be a bitter, horrible bitch!”  
Damn. That was a line that I knew I shouldn’t have crossed. But oh, it felt so good. Thirteen years of this crap was enough. My mother’s face darkened immediately. Her icy blue eyes intensified, and her nails dug deeper into her palms, drawing blood.  
“You disgraceful, insolent shit! And you-”  
“Got to get to school, Mother. See you later!” I blew a teasing kiss at her, and her face contorted further as if something actually made contact with her.  
“You’re dead to me, you hear me? D-E-”  
I closed the door mid-sentence and headed toward school, smiling with immense joy. I didn’t leave because I was afraid of her, oh hell no. I left because I knew it would irritate her. Stupid Mom. She tried to tell me I couldn’t talk to my friend Grover because he was black. The racist bitch thinks she’s living in the 1950s. She should have realized by now that I don’t exactly respond well to authority, especially with how controlling she tries to be (Key Word: tries). I trudged through the fallen Autumn leaves that covered the cement pathway through the woods as I headed to school, and stopped by the old abandoned wooden house that no one ever feels like taken down. I drove my fist through the wood, adding another polka dot to the dilapidated house. I stepped back and looked at the numerous holes I’ve created over the years and admired my work. I punch things a lot. I punch things when I’m angry. I punch things when I’m happy. I just enjoy the feel of something breaking under my fist. I try to refrain from hitting people, because I know it could get me into tons of trouble, though from previous experiences with bullies I know it feels a lot better than wood. I arrived at school at 7:35 like usual and looked up at the building.  
Thomas Elementary and Middle School was a stretched-out one story building with two halves - one for the 2nd through 5th graders, and the other for us middle schoolers - in a quiet suburban town outside NYC. I had to come so early because my wonderful mother forced me into a pre-engineering program, so I must come a half an hour early. I can’t quit, and I can’t skip it or else I’ll fail. I’m already failing English anyway, so why I come I don’t know. I guess coming to school for extra time is better than staying with my mother.  
I sat down next to Grover, like every day. His crutches leaned against the table. I thought he had a sprained foot or something when he first moved here, but he never stopped limping for the months he was at Thomas.  
“You seem happy, Stephen. That scares me. You’re never happy. Unless…”  
“Unless I fight with my mother and win? Because that is exactly what happened this morning!”  
“Was it about me again?” he said smugly.  
“Of course, but don’t blame yourself for what she does. You can’t control what she says. She’s just nasty scum. And a slut, too.”  
“She’s still with that Jim guy?”  
“Yes, and he’s black, too. So she’s just a hypocritical asshole. And I snapped this morning, too. I mentioned my dad.”  
Grover’s eyes widened slightly in a mocking fashion. “Gasp! You ruffian! What was her reaction?”  
“She called me a disgrace, said I was insolent. Nothing I haven’t heard before.” I smirked.  
“So what’d you do?”  
“I blew her a kiss and left her there.”  
I noticed Grover’s mouth slowly curl into a grin as our teacher, Mr. Beam, walked into the room.  
“Okay kids, let’s run over engineering vocabulary…”  
English with Ms. Sullten came soon after Pre-Engineering, what would’ve been my first period if I wasn’t forced into an earlier class. Unfortunately Grover wasn’t in this class with me, but I still had other friends, (I’m not a loser!) like Shawn and and Josep. Yes, his real name is Josep. Yeah, weird name, but that’s not my fault. We just call him Joe.  
I sat in the side of the class next to Beyoncé Wong (she’s Chinese, why’d her parents name her after Beyoncé?) and Patricia Sween, the palest chick in the class. I like the class, because Ms. Sultan treats us like human beings, not ignorant children. She lets us debate over serious and controversial topics, we watch (gasp) PG-13 movies, and even better, we get to act. And I love acting. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I get to convert my extreme hatred for my mother into emotion to make the character I play seem real. Or maybe because it’s fun and easier than essays.  
“So, students. Today you will be reading this poem story thing titled ‘The Telltale Heart’ by Edgar Allen Poe.”  
Joe used what we call “facial-grunt communication.” He’d make a facial motion with a possible grunt or sigh to add effect. This one consisted of a dramatic eye-roll across the room at me.  
“But,” Ms. Sullten continued. “We never know what gender the speaker is. Tomorrow we will debate, and for homework you will write down 5 pieces of evidence on whether it’s a man or woman. Now let’s begin. ‘TRUE! -- nervous -- very, very dreadfully nervous I had been...’”

* * * * *  
I was talking to a girl named Olive, a tall quiet girl who always had some sort of flower in her hair, about Ms. Sullten’s class on the way to lunch. Today, to go with the fall season, she had a few mums blooming around her headband. Weird flower to be in someone’s hair, I know, but it looked good.  
“Was that supposed to be a poem?” I asked.  
“I don’t…” She paused, seeming confused. Good, I wasn’t alone on this. “It was written like a short story, but anything’s a poem these days. Speaking of which, did you write your poem for homework? I forgot to ask you in engineering, but I was too involved in the work. Engineering is so not for me. But then again, neither is poetry.” She giggled.  
I was hesitant to talk about the poem. I wasn’t eager to tell Olive about the poem I wrote about my mother. I only told Shawn, Joe, and Grover about my home troubles. But I felt like I shared something with Olive. We’re both failing English and engineering. Plus, there’s something that I just feel from her. Like some kind of energy I feel from her. Or maybe she’s radioactive.  
“Yeah, I wrote it about my mother.”  
“I never had a mother.”  
I looked at her, a look of surprise and empathy. Another thing to add to the “alike list” between me and Olive: only one parent.  
“Really?”  
“I look at an old picture of her every night.” She paused for a brief second, then grimaced.. “My dad said she died of cancer when I was a year old. That my birth gave her some sort of disease, that it was my fault, that-”  
“Olive.”  
“Yeah, I’m… Sorry. I don’t have to trouble you with my life, do I?” She gave a smile, seemingly more to convince herself than me.  
“No, it’s just, I never had a father. He left my mom after my birth. She became a harsh, cruel bi…” I sighed, and sat against the hallway’s wall. A seventh grader accidentally stepped on my shoe, but I didn’t care enough to respond. Olive sat down next to me as I bowed my head into the binder in my arms, eyes closed.  
“Do you have any pictures of him?”  
I opened my eyes and was greeted with the sight of the blood red plastic. My head just wouldn’t lift.  
I sighed.  
“Yes.” Pause. “But I…” Shaky breath. “I think my mom took it and hid it in her room.” Why was this affecting me so much? Why was I letting all this pour out? I never do this… I never even knew my dad, so why does this matter anyway? “He looks like me, or I look like him.” Why were tears gathering? Crying is showing weakness! But I just couldn’t stop. “If I had my mother’s looks…” Ugh. Do I need a Prozac or something? “I don’t want anything to do with her.” My teeth were clenched tightly. I took a look at Olive.  
“I hate her.”  
We sat silent and watched as the remaining students filtered out of the hallway. Neither of us commented on the fact that we were slumped over in the hall like idiots. The mums in her hair wilted, as if they were reciprocating our moods.  
Ms. Sullten’s door opened and Shawn stumbled out of it. “Whatever Joe, it’s not like you-” He stopped, noticing us sulking.  
“What?” Joe asked, still inside the room. “Why-” He stood behind Shawn with a paper loosely hanging from his fingers. “Oh.”  
I looked up at the two of them, and their faces immediately changed. Olive shook her head at them.  
“Write their names down, Joe.”  
“Why?”  
Shawn walked over to a spot about a foot in front of me and Olive. I couldn’t speak, I wouldn’t speak - I felt depressed. Like I had my own personal raincloud suspended above me. Was this the depression that the health teacher told us about? God, it sucked.  
“Seeing as you two are a bit late to lunch, we’ll write your names down on this lunch pass. That’ll get ya out of trouble. Mrs. Closey won’t care, we’ll just tell her that we’re doing a group project and that we need to stay in Ms. Sullten’s to work on it.”  
“Oh, good thinking. I’ll write their names down.” Joe ran back into the class to get a pencil.  
I actually wanted to speak, say thanks or something, but my tongue paralysis wouldn’t allow it. Olive took care of it for me. “Thanks a lot, Shawn. It’s just-”  
“I know.”  
Olive and I looked at each other, and my weird depression wave slowly faded, frustration replacing it. I punched the ground in anger. How could I show weakness like this? What if another classmate saw this? I had a reputation to maintain!  
“Considering the sixth graders get out of class in a few minutes, you should come into the classroom and stop moping.”  
I looked up and smiled. I stood up and easily pulled Olive up after me. Joe walked past us as we entered the class, most likely on his way to taking the lunch pass down to the cafeteria.  
“You two staying for lunch, too?” Ms. Sulltan asked.  
“Yeah,” I whispered hoarsely. I cleared my throat. “Yes, we are.”  
She threw a calculating look at us, like she was wary of use being in her room. She then grinned. “The more the merrier.”  
I didn’t like that look. It didn’t feel right. But of course I put on my usual mask. “Great.”  
Josep soon came back, and the four of us sat and talked with Ms. Sulltan about a variety of topics. Surprisingly enough, Shawn was the one leading the conversation most of the time. He always seems so… confident. Joe on the other hand, was almost the opposite. He just seemed, I don’t know. Twitchy? Anxious? Tense, maybe.  
“You guys have to go, like, now!” Ms. Sulltan said. “You know how angry Mr. Slutriler gets when you’re late to his class.”  
“What an unfortunate name.” Olive’s flowers seemed to return back to a hea- lthy pumpkin orange. She is so weird.  
“He’s an ass anyway,” Shawn said, picking up his books. I love how Ms. Sulltan lets us curse in class. “You should hear how he gets at the sound of your name, Ms. Sulltan.”  
“Let him be pissed. He’s one of two technology teachers - he’d be the first to get laid off. Me, well, I actually teach here. See you guys later!” She glanced past us, at the doorway. I turned around. Grover was standing there, hosting an expression that looked like seven nervous Joseps in one. “Or maybe not.”  
“What’s going on, Grover?”  
“We’re leaving school.”  
“Um, what?” Shawn asked. “Ditching? That is not something I’d expect coming out of your mouth.”  
“This is serious, Shawn. Everyone in this room is getting out of here.”  
“Is something coming again?” Ms. Sulltan asked. I turned around, confused. Again? What’s going on?”  
“Yeah. It’s strong, and it’s close.” Grover turned back to us. “You four. Let’s go.”  
None of us objected. Sure, we were confused. But this seemed serious, and school is a bore. Ms. Sulltan climbed out of her chair, too.  
“You’re coming, too?” Olive asked.  
“I’d rather not face a Stymphalian Bird. Clouds nymphs aren’t mean to fight.”  
“A what?” What in Hell is going on? I read a book on Greek monsters before, but a Stymphalian Bird? Those... they ate people. And cloud nymph? What?  
“Let’s go, guys!” Grover was extremely impatient. Joey wouldn’t stop mumbling. “Heard them… saw this coming… birds…”  
We followed behind Grover out the school, through neighborhoods, and past cars. Whenever we asked what was going on, he’d just say, “there’s something coming that we have to flee from. The rest is too complicated to explain.”  
It’d been a half an hour before Olive stopped. “Grover, where are we going?”  
He turned around. “Somewhere safe.” He almost resumed walking but Joe stopped him. “That’s not enough, Grover.”  
Grover sighed. “We’re going to a camp to get you four to safety. Me and Erin here are supposed to protect you on your journey to this camp. It’s only a mile away now, and-”  
Screams filled the distance. A piercing screech could be heard from behind us.  
“Run, now!” Mrs. Sulltan/Erin/Cloud Nymph commanded.  
I hesitated, and so did the other three kids. A dark silhouette of some huge creature loomed in the sky about ten miles away. And then it zoomed straight at us.  
“Running sounds good.”  
And run we did.

 

End Note - This is probably awful, but whatever. I’m in the process of making a second chapter anyway. I guess writing this is fun, even though people probably dislike it. I hope you don’t though! Stay in tune for the next chap-a-ter, titled Blinded. And I promise, this will get (dramatic pause) DIRTY. Ugh, I'm so weird...

I also feel that i have a song on my phone for every chapter I've written so far. "Oh No" by Marina and the Diamonds would work, or maybe "Run" by Christina Perri. Anyway, I'm writing Chap. 2 now, so be ready for that!


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